


From Eden

by greeneyes_softsighs



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Sacrilege
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:13:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyes_softsighs/pseuds/greeneyes_softsighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Father Maxwell visits him once a year, but it's never enough. 2x3x2</p>
<p>A continuation of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2718407">Yellowed Lace and Pink Candy Floss</a>, set several years in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy warnings for: religious discussion, imagery, symbolism and sex with a priest.
> 
> Also, I stole the last lines of dialogue from sans-voir, because I wanted to.

When the circus stopped coming to their county ten years ago, Father Maxwell started driving to town just to visit Him.  He took the beat up old Buick Roadmaster, a relic from his days as a child, and traveled forty minutes to get to the dirty motel on Mainstreet.  It took another fifteen minutes to order food from the burger joint next door -- 2 burgers, 2 french fries, extra salt -- and then Father Maxwell could knock on the door to room 232.  Just after knocking and right before it opened, his guts would tighten and his heart would clench, skipping a beat before continuing to rattle around in his chest again.  Father Maxwell wiped his sweaty palms on his black trousers while he waited, though it wasn't long, and when the door opened he grinned.

It was always a year.  Exactly one year from the moment he walked into the small motel room, Father Maxwell knew he would walk into it again.  He would place the burgers on the table next to the motel's King James Bible, then he would wash his hands in the bathroom sink, and when he returned to the bedroom he would suggest they eat first, to which He always replied:  "I've waited a year to eat those burgers, I think I can stand to wait a little longer."  This year was no different.

They met at the foot of the bed, where Father Maxwell gave himself to those impatient, needy arms and He would take and take and take.  Callused hands, delicate looking, but sure and experienced, first stripped away the priest’s white clerical collar and placed it on top of the King James Bible reverently.  He kissed the priest's throat, then, and then again after each small black button on his shirt was opened.  Underneath, Father Maxwell wore a simple white cotton tee-- stained yellow at the pits because Sister Helen no longer did his laundry -- tucked into black slacks with a supple leather belt and a tarnished buckle.  He pulled it over Fr. Maxwell’s head in one swift motion.

When He knelt to remove the black shoes, and Father Maxwell stopped Him briefly, stroking the soft fall of brownish-red hair that partially hid His face.  Traced a cheek with his thumb.  Memorized the soft, jagged peaks of His cupid’s bow and angular point of His chin.  The priest got a secret little smile in response, then his shoes and belt and pants were removed carefully, and his cock was inside His hot, wet mouth.  Pressure, friction, pleasure, heat  -- Father Maxwell forgot, over the course of a year, just how damn good it was to have his dick sucked.  He tried not to forget, but it was inevitable, and after a year the memory had grown dim in comparison to the white-hot brilliance of reality.

“Stop,” Father Maxwell yanked on His hair suddenly, earning a little growl of annoyance and painful nip of teeth before He pulled away obediently to look up at Father Maxwell, green eyes saturated with barely tamed aggression.  The priest sat on the edge of the motel mattress as He stood and walked over to a rucksack, still clothed, cock outlined against the threadbare fabric of his slacks.  

“You have the patience of a saint,” He said quietly while searching the rucksack for something.  “Three years ago, I’d already have your cum on my chin by now.”

“And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not,” quoted the priest.  He turned to look at Father Maxwell over His shoulder with a neutral expression.  The priest asked behind a grin: “Will you take off your clothes this time?  I want to see you...”

“If you like,” He said, returning with a small glass bottle.  He tossed it onto the bed beside Father Maxwell and started to strip.  He was methodical, removing His clothing starting with His shoes and working upward.  His naked feet appeared first -- pale and bony with a spider’s web tattooed on the top of His left foot in faded blue ink -- and then His lean legs, hips and erect cock.  Father Maxwell pulled Him close after His shirt joined the rest of the clothing on the ground.  The priest kissed His hip, where the bone pushed against skin, then just to the right of His navel, and squeezed the two soft globes of His asscheeks hungrily.  

“On your back.  Spread your legs,” Father Maxwell heard Him say gently, but the priest refused to let Him go.  He continued to lay kisses over His skin, and stroke the planes of His body, and inhale His scent -- a mixture of musk and sweet, pink sugar Father Maxwell was sure he only imagined -- until He began to get annoyed and pushed the priest back onto the bed.  The little bottle He had brought contained a sweetly scented oil and He used it to prepare Father Maxwell, stretching him with slick fingers before replacing them with His cock in one hard thrust.

Obviously, the sensation of pleasure would be one of the most important aspects of sex for a person.  The slow burn of desire, followed by skin contact and rapid heartbeats and frenzied thrusting, and finally the release -- emotionally, physically, and Father Maxwell believed, spiritually.  But he never remembered that pleasure.  Not in the same way he remembered the soft panting breaths and reedy moans.  The sharp slap of skin on skin as He thrust hard and fast, goaded by Father Maxwell’s insistent moans of ‘Faster’ and ‘Harder.  There, just a little harder.’  He could remember the smell of their sweat, and the sweet oil, only made stronger from friction and bodies and the heat they created between them.

It’s why he came back every year.  The memory was never good enough.  ‘Just once’ was never good enough, and barely did ‘just once a year on my birthday’ cut it.  Father Maxwell wondered if it was the same way for Him, though he doubted it.  The priest didn’t know why He came every year.  He must be leaving someone.  Somewhere.  Something.  He was no longer with the circus, and never told Father Maxwell about His personal life, so the priest assumed what he wanted and tried to find clues in the way He dressed.  Ate.  Spoke, laughed, frowned, scowled… fucked.  Kissed.  His smile, his scent -- Father Maxwell pieced together a world, a life, from these abstract and intangible memories that existed for a year until the experience of their true, real form obliterated them to create new ones.

“Ah, Duo…” He moaned softly, burying His face in the crook of the priest’s neck as He came.  His last hard, chaotic thrusts brought Father Maxwell over the edge too, and they clung together as the world frayed at the edges and unraveled, leaving them sprawled and panting afterward.

* * *

 

“Do you really believe in God?”  Trowa asked in his usual unassuming way, sitting cross-legged on the bed in the nude while eating his cold fast-food burger.  Duo sat on the only chair in the room, next to the little table, equally naked, dragging french fries through bright red ketchup and yellow mustard.  The sun was setting outside, and Duo realized this was the latest Trowa had ever stayed with him after sex.

“I believe in God’s love,” Duo replied seriously while shoving the fries into his mouth.  Trowa shot him an intensely skeptical look that made the priest grin.  “What?  I’m being honest.”

“God only loves good people,” Trowa said, almost bitterly, though there was hardly any inflection in his tone.  It was a matter-of-fact statement that actually made Duo chuckle good naturedly.

“He loves everyone, but not everyone wants to be loved,” Duo explained, though he could tell that Trowa was no longer interested in that vein of conversation.  He’d acquired that far-off look that sometimes came to him during, or even after, Duo fucked him.  They continued eating in silence.  When Duo was done, he stood and brushed the crumbs off his hands.  Trowa looked up and asked: “Are you leaving?”

“No,” Duo laughed, walking over to the bed.  “I was going to lie down next to you, if that’s okay.”  Trowa nodded, then balled up the wrapper to his burger and tossed it onto the floor before he laid down, too, pillowing his head on his arm as Duo stretched out beside him.  Trowa was a nebulous concept to Duo.  He was Schrodinger’s cat, both existing and not existing, until the one day a year Duo could reach out and actually touch him and see him.

“Do you really think He exists, though?”  Trowa broke Duo’s train of thought again.  The priest focused on his face, searching the expression for a tell.

“Why are you asking?”

“Because you didn’t really answer the first time.”

“I did answer,” Duo smiled when Trowa frowned at him, confusion clear in the shrug of his lips.

“Okay, fine.  Then, do you believe in Heaven and Hell?”  Trowa asked, turning to lay on his back, facing the ceiling.  Duo reached out and placed a hand on his naked stomach, caressing the soft, tender skin under his navel with a fingertip until his muscles quivered, and Trowa batted his hand away with a repressed snort of laughter.  “Duo!”

“Ah, sure.  Why not?”  Duo replied, returning his hand to the same spot without tickling this time.  It rose and fell with the sigh Trowa gave him for the vague response.  “Why are you asking, Trowa?  Really.”

“Maybe I want to find out how to get in,” Trowa replied, turning his head toward Duo now, expression dead serious.

“Get in where?”

“Heaven, of course,” Trowa snorted a laugh, as if the question was ridiculous, and Duo was glad of the response.  It allowed him to move closer without Trowa noticing.  He draped his arm across the green-eyed man’s torso and brushed his knuckles over the skin stretched over his ribs.

“Why would you want to get into Heaven?  What’s wrong with Earth?”

“Stop being difficult,” Trowa said, pushing some of his own hair out of his face.  “I’m going to die.  So are you, one day, and when that happens I want--” he shrugged, letting the sentence hang between them.  “It’s probably not going to happen.  Me getting into heaven, I mean.”

“Why?”  Duo persisted with a grin, and narrowly dodged Trowa’s attempt to elbow him in the jaw.

“I already told you, God only likes good people,” Trowa explained in frustration.

“You’re good.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Duo insisted.  He pressed his lips against Trowa’s shoulder, lingering there for a moment before pulling away.  “Getting into Heaven is not as hard as you think.  You don’t have to be great, or even good.  You just have to show God you want to be there.”

“How do I do that?”

“Confess your sins.  Do good works.  That kind of thing,” Duo replied, kissing the juncture where Trowa’s arm attached to his shoulder.

“How do I confess?”  Trowa asked, and Duo reluctantly sat up, tearing his mind away from the insistent need to constantly touch and taste the man next to him.  Eternal salvation should be more important, especially when it concerned a person Duo cared for so deeply.

“Are you sorry for your sins?”  Duo asked, resting his chin on his fists.  Trowa thought about the question for a moment, then nodded slowly.  “Okay, so you can confess them to me, and God.  I’ll absolve you.”

“That’s it?”  Trowa asked, again skeptical.

“There are some prayers you need to say, but I can help you out with those.”  
  
“Don’t we need to sit in those boxes at the church?”

“No.  Unless you want me to face away, we can do it tête-à-tête,” Duo replied, massaging the heel of his hand over Trowa’s chest.  He leaned down, giving into the temptation of Trowa’s body, and sucked one nipple into his mouth.  The other man moaned softly and shivered, squeezing Duo’s naked shoulders with his hands.

“This is fine,” Trowa breathed.  Duo climbed off the bed, then, and retrieved the motel bible from the small table.  He flipped through the book, found a page, then crawled back onto the mattress as Trowa sat up to face him.  Duo placed the bible in his lap, open to the page he’d searched for previously, and taught Trowa the words for the rite of confession.

“I’ve never been to confession,” Trowa admitted, starting the rite with a hesitant sign of the cross.  He did it backwards, mirroring Duo’s gestures, and the priest had to correct him.  Trowa did it again, but his expression belied his annoyance at being corrected.  Duo grinned at him, then turned down to the bible and read a passage: “No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.”

“What’s that mean?”  Trowa asked, annoyance mounting.  Religious rite was convoluted and confusing to him, though Duo could tell that the green-eyed man had a sort of mystified reverence for the words and gestures, even if he was ignorant of their meaning.

“Means that there’s nothing you can say that I haven’t heard before,” Duo paraphrased, and Trowa snorted again.  Duo closed the bible and said: “You can confess now.  Start with your newest, and just go back from there.  Don’t worry if you can’t remember something.”

So Trowa confessed his sins.  He lied, cheated and stole.  He laid with men and women.  Coveted things, coveted people, coveted lives better than his own.  He often took the Lord’s name in vain.  Cursed the Lord.  He fought and took advantage of other’s weaknesses.  Duo listened patiently to a lifetime of sins, some greater than others, and pieced together a life through the webwork of scars Trowa had painted onto his soul.  He learned about the man in front of him through the mistakes he made, the ones he deemed to confess, anyway, though Duo wasn’t inclined to believe that Trowa was going to hold back.

Trowa spoke easily about most of the things he’d done.  There was a detached, itemization to sins like lying or stealing -- things that kept Trowa alive, it seemed.  Other memories brought about hesitation, careful glances in Duo’s direction, or complete avoidance.  When Trowa was close to the end of his confession, his voice was hoarse, and broke as he said: “When I was twelve I laid with a man.”  
  
“How many times?”  Duo asked, simply for curiosity sake, swallowing down the bile that crawled up his throat.  That would have been around the time they met.  Trowa looked down at the bible, closed in Duo’s lap, and shrugged.

“I don’t know.  Maybe… every day for a few months or a year,” he said, rubbing his wrist as his face slipped into a blank mask.  “I don’t remember much else before that.”

Duo still remembered the day he met Trowa, when he worked spinning candy floss at the circus. Remembered the dark, possessive looks from the big Italian who managed the row of concessions stalls, and how Trowa would avoid taking Duo there if he was around. Hindsight was twenty/twenty. Duo wished he could go back, take Trowa and his younger self by the hand, and lead them away from that place. Shelter Trowa, give him the love he needed but sorely lacked, and smack himself over the head for being so blind. Duo swallowed hard again, and when he looked at Trowa he saw that boy from the cotton candy stall cowering inside the body of a man -- skinny and naked, with tattoos bleeding across his skin like the warning colors of a dart frog. Maybe he couldn't go back in time now, but he could still take Trowa by the hand. Shelter him. Lead him, and give him love. The love he craved, and the Love that he believed was beyond his reach.

“So that’s it?”  Duo asked softly, having already taken note that Trowa had never mentioned any of the times he was with Duo.  None of the times they had cheated at the arcade games, or stolen from people’s cars in the lot by the circus, or fucked in Catherine's trailer when she was working her night shows.

“That’s it.”

“Now say, ‘I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life,’” Duo instructed.  Trowa did, and then the priest laid his hand on Trowa’s head.  His fingers entwined in soft, auburn hair, relishing the feeling as Trowa turned his eyes down to his lap.  He taught Trowa the last prayer needed before he was forgiven, and waited until he got through that -- still annoyed, and unable to hide it.  Finally, Duo spoke the words that absolved Trowa, and watched as the tension in the green-eyed man’s shoulders began to ease.  The priest stroked his hair, and then his cheek, grinning when Trowa pressed into the gentle touch.

“You know all about me, now,” Trowa said as Duo stood to replace the bible on the table.

“Just about,” Duo replied with a grin.

“I’m wanted in a few states for some of that.”

“This state, though?”

“No, not this state,” Trowa replied.

“Good.  We’re not entirely done yet, though,” Duo said.  He flopped onto the bed and pushed Trowa onto his back, wasting no time before he pressed their mouths together.  The green-eyed man squirmed against him, arching into his palm when the priest wrapped his hand around the other man’s cock and stroked him roughly.

“What else do I have to do?”  Trowa asked impatiently when Duo grabbed the bottle of oil discarded among the sheets.

“Penance,” Duo said, dribbling some of the liquid into his palm.  “You have to do penance for your sins.”  The priest mouthed Trowa’s sensitive stomach and spread his knees with one hand, then slid two slick fingers along his perineum to massage his entrance.  The muscles in Trowa’s stomach twitched under Duo’s lips when his fingers entered him, curling to brush against his g-spot, drawing a soft noise from Trowa that Duo liked to think of during the year, sometimes, when he was gone.  Just before the other man came, Duo removed his fingers to replace them with his cock. The green-eyed man panted against his shoulder as the priest slowly thrust in and out, frustrating the man below him.

“Duo, please,” he begged, but instead Duo kissed him.  They didn’t kiss much -- on the mouth, that is -- but Trowa wouldn’t shy away from it if Duo insisted.  And he did insist, because Trowa tasted so good, and he felt so good, and the memory of it was never good enough.  Duo groaned and thrust harder, rocking the bed as his hips pistoned forward, not caring when the ugly picture in the ugly frame slid down the wall onto the floor behind the bed.  He finally reached between them and tugged Trowa’s erection gently until the man shuddered beneath him in silent orgasm.  Duo bit his lip bloody when he came soon after, forehead pressed to Trowa’s.

“Was that my penance?” Trowa asked quietly, and Duo couldn’t tell if he was joking, but he laughed anyway as they cleaned up and dressed afterward.  They would have to check out of the motel, or risk paying for a night there.

“No, that definitely was not your penance,” Duo replied with a grin.  He slipped his clerical collar back around his neck.

“Then what should I do?”  Trowa asked.  He was already dressed, with his rucksack thrown over his shoulder, waiting for Duo’s answer by the window.

“Say ten Hail Mary prayers and twenty Our Fathers,” Duo said after taking a moment to think.  “You should do some work with the church, too.  Help a priest and an old nun take care of a bunch of rowdy orphans.”  Trowa didn’t seem to understand what Duo was saying, and if he did, the blank look that had appeared on his face again was not very reassuring.

“I don’t know those prayers,” the green-eyed man admitted.

“I’ll teach you.”

“Duo, I’m not good enough.”

“That’s the beauty of it, Tro.  No one is good enough.  Come with me, please?  We’ll keep each other on the straight and narrow,” Duo’s hand gripped the door handle tightly.  He couldn’t stand another year of memories.  Not after tonight.  

Trowa watched the priest for a moment then smiled, hesitantly, and said, “Okay.”

 


End file.
